


stories written in skin

by days4daisy



Category: Kong: Skull Island (2017)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Extra Treat, M/M, Post-Kong: Skull Island (2017), Post-War, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Heart thumping in his chest, Conrad remains very still. But some odd piece of him, some crazy thing, bids him to crack a smile. “You remember me, don’t you?" he asks. "I certainly remember you.”
Relationships: James Conrad/Kong (Legendary | MonsterVerse)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	stories written in skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetcarolanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcarolanne/gifts).



> I hope you have a very nice Yuletide, sweetcarolanne!

San is the first to ask. “Did something happen?”

Conrad has a hand against his side, in the fleshy dip where oblique gives way to hip bone. The bloodless white scar is prominent enough to feel through his shirt. It doesn’t hurt; it hasn’t in a long time. But he still touches it now and then, an impulse as natural as breathing out after in.

Glances tick his way from their circle. Confused looks from first time peers who have no more reason to know his business than he has to know theirs. The only one who doesn’t look is Weaver, who points her gaze firmly away. Of course she noticed before San, before even Conrad caught himself in the reflex loop. It’s Weaver’s talent to see things others would tread past without a second thought.

“Old injury,” he tells San. His voice stays level, the very picture of composure. But his words are firm enough.

Lips pursued, San nods - she’s unconvinced, but she won’t push. Not here in front of the others. Not when their journey is only beginning.

Their circle squats under the shade of jungle brush. The tangled trees don't spare them from the humid air. At least, under the leafy canopy, they escape the height of the midday sun. They keep their eyes peeled, on guard for the slightest flutter of movement. But this journey back to Skull Island has proven quieter than the first. With the Skullcrawlers gone, Skull Island’s other inhabitants have let them pass in peace.

It’s quiet enough that Conrad allows himself to get up. “I need a dip,” he says.

Weaver offers to go with him, an invitation she must already know he won’t accept. She asks so no one else will, and her smile says she gets it. Weaver thinks all she’s seen lets her understand Conrad in a way no one else in their Monarch-funded party can. She's right, of course. Of the group, she’s the closest. She’s photographed war, its pretty side and the sour underbelly.

But Weaver stayed detached to the end. A morality tourist with camera, pen, and paper. She wasn’t, and isn’t, Conrad. She doesn’t bear a single scar.

Conrad turns her down politely and promises to be fine with a convincing smile of his own. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, a reminder of the twin guns holstered against his back. Even San and Brooks buy in, shared nods of respect between them.

Conrad takes the path west towards the beach. As soon as he’s out of their sights, his fingers resume their protective cradle at his side.

***

Conrad thinks of him often.

Conrad isn't a nice or good man. He has maimed, bruised, and crippled. If the bastard deserved it, he's even enjoyed the payoff a time or two.

But Conrad thinks of him often all the same. He thinks, what would have happened if he’d tucked himself a meter deeper into the brush. He thinks, what if daylight was further along and the sun didn’t break the jungle canopy as it did.

It was a young man who saw him, splintered off from the rest of his village patrol. His eyes grew two sizes when he spotted Conrad, and Conrad saw the conflict in him. Conrad knows how he must have looked - armed and sweaty, skin smeared with mud. The man wanted to run. Maybe to get help, or not return at all. He wanted to go home to his family. He had a wife, perhaps, a son or daughter.

Then, the man’s face grew desperate. He drew a knife and charged.

The scar he left was a relief, an angry pink memory. Conrad's scars are all reminders of the cost of his life.

***

Under the afternoon sun, the air thickens to impenetrable levels. Conrad gulps it down like a hearty winter stew. Years of tracking through jungles accustomed him to meals of tropical air. He breathes it easier than most, bearing the burn of a midday sun that could bring a less acclimated man to his knees.

The shoreline is a blissful reprieve, a whisper of cool air drifting in from the beach. The waves are slow at this time of day, lapping at the sand like a gentle dog. Conrad’s cursory scan of the shoreline yields nothing. No giant squids or monstrous jellyfish. No final Skullcrawler seeking out its bloody revenge. Assured of his solitude, Conrad peels off his holster and clothes. They don’t want to come, sticky with sweat. It takes extra tugs to peel his shirt over his head. His pants, looser, come easier at least.

His marred body steps out, dressed only by the scars war and the years after left behind. Conrad balls his clothes and weapons on top of his boots and pads to the water. His bare feet leave sinking prints in the sand.

Despite the midday heat, the water is refreshingly cool. Skull Island’s bays are like crystal; he sees clear to the sand below as he wades his way out. Conrad takes his time, enjoying the swell of the water up the length of his body. His ankles first, then his calves. His knees, thighs, and waist. Conrad goes as far as his chest, dipping under only briefly to douse his hair and face. Years of tracking have made him forget the sting of early sunburns. He is permanently cooked, he once told Weaver, something she found funnier than he'd intended.

Skull Island is a marvel for a myriad of reasons. Far down the list, but still curious to Conrad, is how fresh the waters are. This far in, his body should be caked with salt. But Conrad feels cleaner now than he has since he last showered back on the ship.

His thoughts drift as he watches his hands sift lazily under the water. The sun makes the surface twinkle like a posh jewelry shop. He can barely make out a scar line along the inside of his forearm. The water is so clear, if he looked closer he could see more. The crescent scar puffed along his left side. The dark oval welt from when he was stabbed. A fat pink scar like a blister above his left knee - he nearly skinned it to the bone in the midst of a brawl.

Around him, the water shivers as if sharing the memories.

Conrad frowns and stills. He hears nothing - no rustling of the jungle brush or caw of distant gulls. On Skull Island, he’s learned that it’s better to hear something than nothing at all.

The water trembles again, beating against his sides like an early high tide. This time, Conrad hears the accompanying rumble. Movement on a scale he never would have fathomed before accepting Randa’s money.

Another pulse. This one tickles the ground under Conrad’s feet. Sand shifts, displaced, beneath his toes. His heartbeat stutters too, sprinting off in a mix of fear and anticipation. On instinct, he retreats until the water rises only to his waist. Drops slide down his back like the showers they abandoned back in civilization.

The next step is louder. It growls around him like thunder, and water seconds ago at waist level blossoms in a rib-high wave. The surge crashes white-lipped to the shore yards away.

One more step, and he appears from behind the peak of a bordering cliff. It is shockingly the first Conrad has seen of Kong on this return voyage to Skull Island. With no storms to brave on this approach, they were not forced to resort to choppers. Their cruisers crossed closer to shore. There, they disembarked onto a smaller passenger vessel. The boat is docked 10 clicks north, close to the rendezvous point on their last, messy voyage.

This modest arrival did not draw Kong’s interest like their ill-advised bomb-dropping. It only spurred mild intrigue from other Skull Island inhabitants. Curiosity, but no interest in treating them as lunch, luckily. Beyond a few clicks of Weaver’s camera, they made their way deeper without incident.

Here now, under the utter size of the island’s king, Conrad realizes that his memories did no justice to Kong. His height is as impressive as his solidness. Kong is a mountain in and of himself, a looming figure that glares down with gold sun-like eyes.

Heart thumping in his chest, Conrad remains very still. But some odd piece of him, some crazy thing, bids him to crack a smile. “You remember me, don’t you?" he asks. "I certainly remember you.”

Kong has to angle his head deep to his chest to see Conrad. It’s a wonder Kong notices him at all, given their scale. To him, Conrad is no more than a gnat buzzing about in the summer heat.

Kong _does_ see him, though. His stance, once tense and foreboding, eases to something more comfortable. His shoulders stretch so broad, it’s impossible to miss their slack when Kong plants himself into the water. The deepest part of the bay comes only to Kong’s waist.

Kong's plunge sets fresh waves barreling towards the shore. Conrad laughs when they wash over him, soaking him from head to toe. “Nice to see you too, I suppose,” he says as he scrubs his dripping face.

Conrad isn’t afraid. The realization hits him as he wipes the errant drops from his brow. He smiles under a presence that would make London’s most impressive buildings blush. Conrad has seen first hand what Kong can do, the number of men he can kill with one errant sweep of a hand. Yet here Conrad is, calmly standing before the beast and rinsing the sun-drenched sweat from his shoulders.

Kong's eyes never leave Conrad, and the tension never returns to Kong’s great limbs. He squats among the gentle waves and watches Conrad clean himself. Curiously, Conrad thinks. Peacefully too. Peace has not made up a great amount of Conrad’s life. It’s a surprise that he still recognizes the sentiment.

Water falls from the hand Kong holds to his mighty breast. Currents flood the lines of his abdomen and back to the pool below. He's not washing himself, but mimicking in a way. Conrad wonders if a being like Kong feels the jungle heat. Is the water a welcome reprieve as it is for Conrad?

Kong’s eyes are on Conrad’s back. Conrad allows him to see it, the line of his spine between tanned shoulder blades. Other things too - bruises and scrapes from days past. And a long, white line that crosses from left shoulder to right hip. Conrad thinks of it as the strike mark of a match. Only too shallow, too shy, to burn him completely.

“It’s from a bar in Saigon,” Conrad tells Kong. He touches the scar at the place where the flat of his back gives to shoulder. “People tend to think it’s the most impressive of the lot. That there’s some great story behind it, but there’s not. This guy thought I’d cheated him out of money. I didn’t, there was no reason to. He was out of his league. He pulled a switchblade. Got a clean shot, cut the shirt off my back. But I ended it.”

Kong looks down at him. His eyes are the most brilliant gold.

“I guess it’s best to not regret the biggest one,” Conrad says. He huffs a laugh; in the humid air, he almost tastes it. “There are others. This one.” He turns so Kong can see the slender white line curving low across his abdomen. “It’s been years, but sometimes…”

Conrad falls silent. The more he speaks of that day, the more he remembers it. He sees that man often enough when he sleeps. Or when he’s awake sometimes, lurking behind his eyelids. It’s worse when he speaks of it.

Conrad motions towards his right shoulder, and the marble-sized mark in the muscle. “Colt Revolver. Not something you expect so far in, but…” He drifts off again, tapping the old raised scar. He got lucky, the bullet went straight through. Missed all bones. Conrad has seen splintered collarbones, and the effort required to secure them without a medic let alone supplies.

The water is so clear that he could see others if he chose; his legs bear just as many reminders. But these are enough, exposed in the middle of the day. The sun hot on his back, and Kong seeing everything.

A grunt calls him to attention. Kong extends an arm, hand outstretched for Conrad’s inspection. There, across the width of his black palm, stands a deep line of scabbed red. The scar is long and not fully healed. The choppers, no doubt. A mighty hand smacked across razor sharp blades.

Conrad has to remember to breathe, shaking and staggered. It’s one thing to know what he’s seeing, and another to believe. Kong knows what it is to be damaged, he’s showing so without pretense. He knows. He understands in a way a thing like him should not.

“It...may heal,” Conrad offers quietly. “It may not. Sometimes it’s best if it doesn’t. From experience.”

Kong huffs and lets his hand fall into the water. The impact riles fresh waves to shore, and Conrad again finds himself drenched. Dripping all over, awe clenched in his chest, all he can do is laugh. And keep laughing.

He has a chuckle on his breath when he makes his way back up to the beach. The warm sand is welcome under his toes. He can’t remember when he last smiled so much. Shaking his head, he reaches for his clothes. Under this heat it won’t take long for the last of the moisture to whisk away.

Kong’s gaze lingers on him, a once unknowable treasure that feels closer to understanding than ever. Conrad's words fail him, his thoughts too, but he stands still on the beach. Naked and wet, his body open to Kong’s unyielding observation. Is this what animals in a refuge feel like, to be looked on with such interest despite only being what they are?

Or is it more than that?

His heartbeat quickens, and a warm feeling flashes through his chest.

Conrad dresses quietly and slowly, clothes clinging to his drying skin. He still feels the scars, memories written under his clothes. But he feels Skull Island’s king too, never looking away. Not even when Conrad recedes back up the shoreline. Not until Conrad, pulse racing and unbelievable thoughts in his head, disappears into the trees.


End file.
